Seven Days of SAW 2020
by MizJoely
Summary: Sherloly Appreciation Week fic collection, various ratings (may change to M at some point so pay attention!)
1. In Which Molly Takes The Initiative

_A/N: Rated T, heavy on the innuendo and, um, no actual bedsharing lol. Many thanks to vertual for reading this over on the sherlolly discord!_

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**Day 1: Only One Bed**

Six months. They'd been romantically involved for six bloody months and they'd been going slow because she'd told herself she'd let him set the pace even if she'd never actually said that aloud to him but honestly...six months and nothing more than kisses and cuddles?

It just wouldn't do.

Molly was comfortable with sex. She liked sex, to be honest, and she missed it when she wasn't having any - and she hadn't been having any aside from her own hands and Mr. Vibey since she'd broken up with Tom (and since she was being totally honest today, if not a bit devious, the sex with Tom has been adequate at best and frustrating at worst and Mr. Vibey had been very stealthily applied more than once after Tom was snoring or gone back to his own flat).

It wasn't as if Sherlock wasn't interested; she could tell when a man was enjoying himself and he was definitely enjoying himself...right up until he made his excuses and left or sent her back to her own flat or declared it a night when he wouldn't be sleeping and spent it pacing or playing the violin while she lay on his bed in frustrated annoyance before eventually falling into sleep plagued by Those Types Of Dreams.

No, it just wouldn't do. Molly Hooper was a patient woman - lord knew she was a patient woman, having waited eight long years for Sherlock to finally get his head out of his arse - but her patience was at an end.

So she laid her plans, and ignored the sensible (panicky) part of her mind that was whisper-screaming at her _this is a terrible idea, you'll ruin everything you daft woman, you know he's still probably recovering from all that family trauma he suffered because of his sister even if he's out running around as usual with John on cases and taking you to romantic dinners in between but that doesn't mean he's ready to Do It_...ignored it, stifled it, stomped it into submission as she made a few phone calls and got everything arranged to her satisfaction for the coming weekend.

**oOo**

Something was different. Sherlock paused on Molly's doorstep, head raised like a hunting hound sniffing the wind, eyes darting back and forth, taking in the signs that anyone else would have missed.

_Scuff marks on the doorframe. Fresh scratch on the lip of the third step. Half a workman's boot print beneath the railing to the left, clearly missed when the rest of the porch had been washed earlier - not just washed, scrubbed, faint scent of the pine cleaning fluid Molly favored still lingering…_

_Interesting! Molly's had some furniture moving done. Why?_

Raising his hand, Sherlock knocked on the door, eager to deduce more of Molly's entirely unexpected activities this evening.

**oOo**

The door opened and there Molly stood, hair and makeup showing extra care - a bit too much around the eyes and not enough on the lips, but the hair loose and wavy with nary a naff bow or barrette in sight - and wearing a brand new frock in the bold colors she favored. Blue and green this time, vaguely evoking the scent and sounds of the sea to his mind, with kitten-heeled blue pumps and an eager, nervous smile on her lips.

He leaned forward and kissed those lips. "You look lovely," he murmured against her lips after the kiss had come to a most satisfactory end. "Special occasion?"

"Just you coming," she said, and was that a small smirk on her lips now? _Interesting_.

In fact, this whole evening was turning out to be even more interesting than anticipated. His heart quickened as he followed her inside, eager to see just what she had in mind besides dinner and - he paused, sniffing the air appreciatively - mmm, ginger nuts, home made and still cooling, oh it was Christmas!

Then he focused once again on this other senses and stopped dead in his tracks.

"Molly Hooper, what have you done with your sofa?"

"Sent it out to be reupholstered," she replied without hesitation, but her expression gave her nervousness away. Her eyes, darting around the room to rest anywhere but on his face. Her teeth, nibbling at her lower lip.

Her hands, fidgeting with the bright blue sash of her dress.

"Dinner?" she asked brightly, moving toward her open, airy kitchen from which not only the heavenly smell of fresh-baked ginger nuts was emanating, but also the subtler smell of homemade meatballs in a light wine sauce and either cauliflower or broccoli, lightly roasted.

Both especial favorites of his.

"Molly."

She stopped her headlong rush for the other room. Stood, shoulders slightly hunched for a moment before squaring them and turning to face him. To look him dead in the eye for the first time since opening her front door to his knock.

"Should I deduce the state of your guest bedroom?"

"The mattress needed replacing," she said in a low voice. "New one won't be here till tomorrow but I had them take the old one away."

Sherlock took a step forward, then another. "So you're telling me that, should I desire to stay here tonight as I so often do, there's only one bed and nowhere else to sleep? That we'll have to share a bed together?"

She swallowed. Nodded. Started to lower her gaze, then thinned her lips and straightened her posture to one of pure defiance. "Yes."

He took one last step, so that he was stood directly in front of her. Touching distance. "Is this your way of saying you'd like to sleep with me?"

"It can just be sleeping," she rushed to assure him, as nerves clearly overtook her attempt at bravado. "It doesn't have to be anything else."

"Anything else meaning sex?" He quirked an inquisitive eyebrow at her, and she blushed. Becomingly.

"Well, yes," she mumbled. "I just thought, well, I was hoping - well, not hoping, exactly...Shit!" she suddenly exclaimed. "I can't believe I went to all this ridiculous trouble instead of just asking you when you'd be ready for sex!"

Instead of welling up with tears, as he feared, she shook her head and began laughing at herself. "I'm such an idiot, Sherlock! Forgive me, I wasn't actually trying to, to trap you into sex. I promise! I guess it was more of a -"

"Test," they said together, then both fell into laughter - and one another's arms.

"Molly," Sherlock said once he'd caught his breath, "you never fail to surprise me. In the best possible way," he added reassuringly. "So after we eat the dinner you've gone to such careful lengths to prepare, and after I've had a few of those delicious ginger nuts you've been sure to leave out so I could smell, perhaps we could adjourn to the bedroom and see just how comfortable your bed is when we're both in it at the same time."

As she started to nod, some devil prompted him to add, "And I trust after tonight you won't be needing Mr. Vibey for a good long time, eh?"

He laughed the entire time she chased him into the kitchen.

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_A/N: __I've read (and written) fics where Sherlock manipulates things so there's only one bed but none where Molly does it. Hopefully this works!_


	2. Seven Minutes In Hell

_A/N: Rated T for dark themes because not all prompts turn out light and fluffy. Many thanks to vertual, mouse9 and sherlolly for reading this over at various stages. Day 2 is coming, apologies for uploading out of order but the fake dating story is much longer than anticipated. Stay tuned, and thank you for your wonderful reviews of the first chapter!_

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**Day 3: Locked In A Room/Trapped In A Small Space, etc.**

"Molly."

"Mmph."

"Molly!"

There was urgency in Sherlock's whispered repetition of her name. "Le'melone," she mumbled, trying to turn on her side away from him. Why was he crowding her so much, he usually gave her plenty of space when he used her bed to stretch out and think on, now he was practically on top of her and she was so damned tired and she could tell he'd stolen the covers and the pillow and…

The feel of Sherlock's hand on her shoulder, shaking her, startled a gasp out of her. "Molly! For God's sake, wake up! We need to figure out a way out of here!"

The urgency in his voice snapped her wide, wide awake. Her eyes flew open, but she could see nothing. Wherever they were - clearly not in her bed in her flat - there was no light showing at all. And when she tried to move, she found her back pressed up against a hard, flat surface. Raising a shaking hand, she reached up...and met the same hard, flat surface which her fingertips informed her was some kind of wooden structure.

"Sherlock," she breathed out, trying very hard not to panic, "are we...are we some kind of...box?"

"Coffin," he corrected her, much as she wished he'd kept his stupid mouth shut. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek, and his hand remained on her shoulder, steadying her a bit. Reminding her that, whatever might be going on, at least they were facing it together. "I estimate we have roughly ten minutes of air remaining." He paused, then added reluctantly, "Seven if we try to break out."

"Okay," Molly said in a small voice. She was trying to breathe very slowly and evenly but it wasn't working very well. "But if we don't try to break out..."

"I have no idea where we are or how we got here, and since you were also unconscious - drugged, as you've no doubt already figured out - I presume the same is true for you. Given that it's unlikely that someone we know did this as a bit of a lark, then I'd say just sitting tight and waiting for rescue is just as likely to end in our demise as attempting to kick our way out."

His words certainly weren't helping her breathing any. Or to slow her racing heart. "Kick our way out," she repeated, trying desperately to focus on Sherlock's plan of action. It was better than doing nothing, that much was for sure, but whether it would do anything other than reduce their breathable air by three minutes was open to debate.

Still, as she'd already concluded, doing something was far better than doing nothing. "So, how do you want to do this?" she asked.

"Roll over and lie on top of me?" Sherlock instructed. "There should be enough room. Then we both kick at the same time, to maximize the amount of force and hopefully crack the lid on our prison. It's pine, you can smell the resin, so it should be fairly easy to damage."

"Good thing it's not a casket, those things are usually made of hardwoods," Molly agreed, then proceeded to squirm around until she was able to haul herself on top of Sherlock's hard, lean form.

Lord, she needed to have a serious talk with whoever had arranged for her to live out one of her favorite fantasies, only to turn it into an absolute nightmare.

Sherlock grunted as she wiggled herself into place, dropping his hands to her hips and shifting her about until - oh God, until her bum was snug against his groin.

Shitshitshit I'm going to die of mortification before the air runs out, Molly thought as she felt a shiver of want rack her slender frame.

"Molly, it'll be fine," Sherlock said, obviously mistaking her shiver for one of fear. "We'll get through this. On the count of three, yes?"

"Yes," she managed, leaning her head back so it rested on his shoulder. "One," they chanted together. "Two. Three!"

On three they both kicked up with all of their might. Molly was thankful that whoever had kidnapped and presumably kidnapped them had left them fully clothed and still wearing their shoes. She was equally thankful that she had on trainers rather than the flimsy pair of ballet flats she normally wore when running her Saturday errands.

Even the solid rubber soles of her trainers, however, weren't enough to cushion the shock of pounding her feet against the pine boards of the coffin. She gritted her teeth and continued the movements, feeling Sherlock moving beneath her in a dark parody of the rhythms of sex and tired her damndest not to cry in either fear, pain or frustration.

"Molly, stop." Sherlock must have said it to her more than once, because he was lightly shaking her shoulder. "It's no good, I'm afraid. Can you feel it?"

She was about to ask what he was talking about when yes, she felt it. Dirt, trickling in from the cracks they'd managed to make in the pine cover.

They weren't just in a coffin; they'd been buried alive.

"Seven minutes left," Sherlock murmured. "I'm sorry, Molly. Whichever unknown enemy of mine did this to us, I am so very, very sorry he pulled you into this."

Molly was quiet, her fingers curled tightly into the lapel of Sherlock's jacket, while she considered what he was saying - and what he was not saying.

"We're going to die," she concluded after a few seconds. Oddly, she felt a sense of calm descending over her. "This isn't some clever trap we're supposed to find our way out of. We're going to die."

His response should have panicked her, but she remained in that strange bubble of calm as he said, "Yes." Well, her heartbeat did pick up a bit when he added, "Roll over onto your stomach, you'll be more comfortable."

She wiggled her way into position, biting her lip as her head came to rest on his chest. This really was fantasy-turned-nightmare, even moreso when he wrapped his arms around her.

"Seven minutes left to live," she mused, doing her best to ignore the throbbing pain in her feet. "Not the way I expected to go, I'll admit. Kind of thought I'd keel over while doing an autopsy in my 80s. Or die in bed with my cat eating my toes off before someone found my body." She giggled a bit as she tried to picture Toby - or whichever cat she eventually got to replace Toby - spitting out her red-painted toenails.

"Molly," Sherlock said warningly. "What have I told you about making jokes?"

"Well, would you rather I was screaming and crying and having hysterics? Because frankly that's the only other alternative," she snapped. "It's there, the panic, and the fear, and the denial, I know it's there even if right now I'm not actually feeling any of it. And don't worry," she added bitterly, "I know you'd much rather be in this predicament with anyone but me-"

"Bullshit." She blinked at his unexpected use of a curse word; she'd never heard him swear before. "If I had to be trapped in a confined space with someone, I'd much rather it was you than, say, John or my brother. John would have strangled me by now, rightfully blaming me for this mess, and Mycroft would be so unbearable about the whole thing that I'd wish John was strangling me just to put me out of my misery!"

Molly gave a snort of laughter. "Look at you, being funny during the last few minutes of your life! Who'd have thought you had it in you?"

They fell silent again, Molly listening to the thrumming of his heart beneath her ear, feeling a sort of contentment as he continued to hold her in his arms. He was even stroking her upper arm a little, absently, probably not even realizing he was doing it, and she was damned sure not going to point it out to him and have him stop.

In fact… "Sherlock, I need you to do something for me," she whispered before she lost her courage.

"What?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that absolutely did things to her limbic system. And the warmth of his breath on her ear - heaven. Absolute heaven. "What do you need?"

"I need you to say three words for me and not ask why." She closed her eyes, which was exactly the same as keeping them open, but it helped her continue speaking even though she knew it was the worst idea possible. But she had to hear it, even if it was a lie. The question was, would he do it for her?

"What words?" Sherlock asked, his voice almost as low as hers.

"I. Love. You."

There. She'd said it. "Say it like you mean it," she added.

He was silent for a long time, so long that she decided he wasn't going to do it, that he wouldn't lie even in their last two minutes of life together.

Just as she opened her mouth to tell him it was all right, she understood, he spoke.

"I, I love you," he said, slightly stammering the phrase. Then, with more certainty, "I love you."

One hand slid up from her hip to her arm, then gently cupped her chin, tilting her head up so that she could feel his breath on her lips. "Molly Hooper, I love you," Sherlock breathed. "I'm just sorry it took something as insane as this to make me admit it." Then he kissed her, a tender, loving kiss exactly as she'd always longed to feel from him, and she kissed him back, knowing that this was exactly how she wanted to spend her last, precious breaths.

The kiss went on and on, and Molly swore she could feel the earth moving - and then she and Sherlock broke apart as they each realized at the same time that the earth was, indeed, moving.

"What the f-" Molly started to exclaim, feeling the coffin start to rock and hearing the grinding of heavy machinery, dirt falling, the creaking of a chain. Then a swaying sensation; the coffin was being lifted, they were saved, but by who?

With a crash the coffin dropped back down to the ground, splintering apart around them while Sherlock held her in his arms, shielding her from the worst of the damage. She let out a muffled scream as they rolled out of the smashed remains and down a slight slope, ending up hard against a stone surface that was, when Molly finally caught her breath and was able to look around, a headstone of some sort.

She sat up with Sherlock's assistance, staring around in bewilderment. It was night-time, which was good because if it had been daylight out they'd both have been temporarily blinded. The faint light of the moon and stars was more than enough for her to see that yes, they were in a small graveyard, and that they'd tumbled down a mound of dirt behind which she could just make out the outline of what looked like a backhoe with chains attached to the bucket.

Chains which still appeared to hold the remnants of a wooden coffin, the wreckage of which lay scattered over the dirt mound.

"Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine, are you?" Molly asked, rather breathlessly as Sherlock helped her to her feet.

"Fine, we're both fine, now let's see just who's behind this farce." Sherlock's voice was fierce, angry and even in the near-full darkness Molly could tell his expression matched his tone. She watched as he scrambled back up the small pile of dirt, grabbing one of the swinging chains and peering into the backhoe. "No one," he called down to her, sounding frustrated. "There's some sort of remote control on the seat."

Molly, who had stooped to examine something glinting in the coffin debris, stood back up with her prize - the evidence - held carefully in her hand. "Sherlock, I found some sort of electronic device, maybe a camera, I think?" She hated the uncertainty in her voice, but this really wasn't her area of expertise.

Thank God there was no need of her particular expertise at the moment; she shuddered to think how close they had come to dying, and knew reaction was starting to set in.

Sherlock bounded back down, snatching the little tangle of plastic and wires out of her hand and holding it up closely to his face. "Microphone," he said, sounding quite sure of himself.

Molly's face flushed red with renewed mortification. Oh God, someone had been listening to them? Had heard her ask - beg - Sherlock to say he loved her?

Had let them go immediately after he'd done so.

Coincidence?

She shivered and shook her head. No, that was ridiculous, wasn't it? Their mysterious abductor couldn't possibly have predicted that was what would happen, could they?

Before she could even attempt to articulate her confusion, Sherlock spoke. "Whoever did this knew what was going to happen. They knew you'd ask me to say those words, when we both thought it was hopeless and we were going to die." He clenched his fist, the twisted bits of wiring sticking out from between his fingers. "Someone deliberately put us into this situation, forcing us to confront our feelings for one another. But who?"

Molly's head was reeling. "Our feelings for one another?" she repeated. "But, but I'm the only one, I mean, I'm the one who has feelings for you, not the other way round!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Molly," Sherlock snapped, turning to face her. His dark curls, still in disarray from their confinement, shone with a silvery halo in the moonlight. "Of course I have feelings for you. I just told you I love you, didn't I?"

"Because I told you to say it," Molly reminded him. "I told you to say it like you mean it, and you did. But I know it was just because you thought we were going to die, and you were being nice, and-"

"When have you ever known me to do something just to be nice?" Sherlock raked his fingers through his hair, standing his curls further on end. "Even though there was a chance we might not make it, I wouldn't have said what I said just to be 'nice', I thought you knew me better than that."

"I'm beginning to think I don't know you at all," Molly said wonderingly. "Are you saying that you actually did mean it?"

"I thought that kiss would have made my feelings abundantly clear." He sounded sulky, and all Molly could do was laugh and pull him close, pressing her lips to his for another kiss, which he willingly returned for a few seconds before pulling away. "We have a criminal mastermind to catch," he reminded her. "We'll have to put all this-" He reached out and trached his thumb over her lips, "-on hold for the moment."

"That would probably be for the best," a new voice interjected dryly. Molly startled, but Sherlock's arms simply tightened around her, allowing her to keep her balance.

"Ah, Mycroft, I was wondering how long it would take you to find us," Sherlock said, just as dryly. "Unless you're the one who kidnapped us and buried us alive, I presume our actual abductor clued you in as to our whereabouts?"

Mycroft, rather to Molly's surprise, simply let out a small sigh. "You recognize our whereabouts, then?"

"Musgrave," Sherlock replied, rather cryptically. At least to Molly; both Holmes brothers seemed to know exactly what they were talking about. "Our family home, burned in a fire when I was six or seven," he added, causing Molly to blink in surprise. He usually didn't bother to explain himself, certainly not when he had his brother to snipe at!

Huh, maybe he really does love me.

"So, bro, care to tell us why Molly and I were kidnapped, drugged, buried alive and then snatched from the jaws of death at the literal last moment? Because the location and your involvement tell me this is personal. A family matter of some kind, am I right?"

Mycoft's shoulders slumped, just a fraction, before straightening. "Yes, Sherlock, a family matter. One that I will do my best to explain to you on our way."

"Where?" Sherlock demanded as they heard the sound of an approaching helicopter. "And before you say it, wherever you're taking me, Molly comes too."

Mycroft dipped his head in acknowledgement; Molly couldn't swear to it, but there seemed to be an air of defeat about Sherlock's brother that she'd never - in her admittedly limited exposure to him - ever seen in him before.

Then Sherlock looked down at her, and her knees practically melted when he added in a low voice, "That is, if you want to come with us. If you'd rather have someone take you home or to hospital or fly you to your mother in Australia-"

She couldn't help it; she flung her arms around him and hugged him, kissing him as if there was no audience even as she heard Mycroft give a huff of disgust. "We may not have started this but I'll be damned if anyone keeps me from seeing it through to the finish." She turned to face Mycroft. "So. Where are we going?"

He looked at her for a long, assessing moment before giving a short nod. "Have either one of you ever heard of a place called...Sherrinford?"

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_A/N: Yes, I'm evil to leave it there but you can imagine the family reunion that's about to take place! Hope you enjoyed this very belated Sherlolly Appreciation Week fic!_


	3. Sub Rosa

_A/N: T rated angst set during TLD. Many thanks to vertual for reading this over!_

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**Day 2: ****Fake Dating/Secret Dating/Undercover as Lovers, etc.**

She shouldn't love him when he's like this, a hot mess, all greasy curls and pasty skin and three-day stubble but underneath all that, he's still Sherlock and she's still Molly and let's face it, she thinks despairingly, she'll never stop loving him no matter what.

"You're my angel, Molly," he says from his position lying prone on the gurney in the back of the ambulance, the words slightly slurred but only slightly. "Angel of mercy, that's you. Thank you for doing this."

She ducks her head and starts to turn away, but he grasps her arm, gently, just above the wrist and she turns to face him and sees the raw honesty in his sunken blue-green eyes with their raccoon-like dark circles. "Couldn't do this without you. Wiggins is good but he's not you." His gaze turns softer, yet somehow more intense at the same time. "He'll keep me alive but you - _you_, Molly Hooper - give me a reason to live. Thank you."

He sounds sincere and she's sure that, in this moment, he absolutely means every word, but it's the moments _after _this moment that she's worried about. Yes, they began their undercover relationship, their secret affair, before Mary's death and this whole Culverton Smith-save-John-Watson thing, but what if...what if…

Ugh. It's all _what if_ right now.

She shoves her worries aside; Sherlock needs her to be in the moment with him. So she manages a small, sad smile, reaches down and gently lays her hand over his. Gives it a little squeeze, then just as gently removes it and lays it on his stomach. "When this is all over, Sherlock, we really need to figure out if we can actually make this work," she says, and he nods, too fast, too many times, head bobbing like one of those dashboard knicknacks her American cousin favors. Dogs, mostly, but some cats and even a moose or an elk; she'll have to check out the pictures on her mobile later and she's letting her mind wander because this is so painful and she has to _focus_.

One of them has to focus on more than just saving John Watson's life and sanity - if what Sherlock says about him talking to Mary as if she's still alive is true, then his sanity is definitely at stake - or else Sherlock's life will be in as much danger. _And your sanity as well, _the sensible part of her mind reminds her._ You'd have to be mental to get involved with Sherlock Holmes, to stay by his side even knowing to what extremes he's willing to go in order to follow the wishes of a dead woman._

The pain of losing Mary, never far from heart and soul, flares in her chest like a fresh wound, reminding her just why Sherlock has put himself so deliberately into harm's way - and why the two of them have been keeping their relationship a secret from everyone except possibly Mycroft Holmes who always seems to know everything even if he doesn't always do something about it.

_Rosie_, she reminds herself. They're doing this for Rosie as much as for her grieving, angry father. They're doing this to keep their broken lives and found family together and if this isn't an 'ends justify the means' sort of moment then nothing is.

But she's reaching her limits, and she needs him to know that. To not dismiss her concerns or wave away her fears. "I mean it, Sherlock," she says, willing him to hear the warning in her voice and not just nod-nod-nod out of fear of her leaving him if he doesn't agree with her. "I want to save John just as much as you do, but this can't happen again." Her voice nearly breaks. "I can't lose you like this, Sherlock. Please. When this is over, promise me, _promise me_ you'll never do something this, this stupid and, and noble and fucked up ever again. Promise me!"

He leans up on one elbow, eyes as steady on hers as someone in his condition - high as a kite and skating dangerously close to death - can be. Reaches up and places one long, pale, slightly trembling hand behind her neck. Draws her down, down, down to his level. Presses a soft, slightly trembling kiss to her lips. "I promise," he whispers. "When this is over, when John is safe and Smith is in prison, I promise, Molly Hooper. It won't happen again. It won't need to."

And Molly simultaneously exults in her love for this impossible, wonderful man, and damns herself for a fool for believing him.

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_A/N: __This isn't the story I was originally going to post for this trope but that one actually is a sequel to another story so I'll publish that one separately._


	4. Take Me, I'm Yours

_A/N: Moving at the speed of slugs, I continue to add stories to this collection. This is for Day 4 and the first line is the prompt. Rated T Uni!lock, anyone?_

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"This person won't stop flirting with me, please pretend to know me?"

And he smiles, rather desperately, and despite her reservations about being accosted in such a manner by a strange boy - man, she's in uni now, she's a woman, he's a man - Molly smiles and nods and says in a low voice, "Which one is it?" although she suspects she knows.

Yup, it's the brassy blonde with the too-tight blouse and too-red lipstick and too-high heels, teetering her way over to the two of them, pushing rudely through the crowd of party-goers and ignoring their protests and glares. Clearly a woman on a mission - and that mission is still rather desperately clinging to Molly's arm with both hands, more like a drowning man with a life-saver than a potential hook-up partner.

Not that Molly doesn't blame either the other girl (woman!) for wanting him, or him for not wanting to be chased down like a gazelle. He's tall, a bit on the gangly side yet, but quite good looking in a posh, overbred sort of way. All dark, disheveled curls and cheekbones and - what color are those cat-shaped eyes, anyway?

Those lovely cheekbones darken a bit; those mysterious (blue? green?) eyes shift to the side and Molly realizes with a start that she's been staring. And now Miss Determined Bleached Blonde is almost upon them and so she does the first thing she thinks of; she tiptoes up, snakes a hand behind his neck, and kisses Mr. Gorgeous full on the lips.

Mm, and such soft, plump lips they are too. Quite worth nibbling on.

Molly blames the rum punch for her forward actions, for letting herself act just as predatory as the woman Mr. Gorgeous is trying to avoid, but since he kisses her back and pulls her closer she guesses he doesn't mind so much.

She hears a loud, annoyed huff and glances over to find Miss Sorry-He's-Now-Taken-So-Piss-Off glaring at her. She smirks, her lips still pressed against those of Mr. Not-Just-Gorgeous-But-A-Damn-Good-Kisser, and returns to snogging him while the former predator stomps off to find some other, less nimble prey.

"Thanks."

She looks up and smiles, feeling a bit awkward now that their lips are no longer locked. "No problem. Er, sorry about, um, not just pretending we're old friends or something. This - kissing you, I mean - seemed like the more, um, direct route."

He smiles back, rather shyly. His arms are still around her, she notices, and he doesn't seem too inclined to move away, so she stays where she is, her hands now resting on his shoulders. "It's fine, I'm just not very good at all...this." He waves one hand but immediately puts it back on her waist. To keep up the illusion that he's taken, in case any other predators come after him?

Molly sorta-kinda hopes it's that he actually likes her, then scolds herself internally for even thinking such a thing. If he wasn't interested in Miss Tall and Glammed Up, then he's even less likely to be interested in herself, Miss Short and Mousy.

"So, uh, would you be interested in maybe going for a coffee?"

She blinks and stares and it takes her a few minutes to realize he's talking to her. That he's asking her out. "You don't even know my name!" she blurts out, then blushes. "I, I mean yes, I'd love to, I'm Molly, Molly Hooper." And she pulls her hand down and makes a supremely awkward attempt to shake his hand, which is still on her waist, but he removes it and accepts the gesture with aplomb.

"Sherlock," he introduces himself. "Holmes. Very pleased to meet you, Molly Hooper. Now. How about that coffee? I'll answer any questions you have about me and I'll ask you anything I haven't already deduced about you and we'll mutually decide on whether or not to continue that rather smashing snogging session you initiated, hm?"

Molly blinks rapidly, considers his words, and finally grins up at him again. "It's a date, Sherlock Holmes." And they head for the campus center for coffee and conversation that lasts well into the wee hours of the night.

Later, after they've begun dating, he admits that he set her up a bit - that he egged Miss Dangerous Blonde on a bit just so he'd have an excuse to talk to Molly, whom he'd already deduced as the most interesting person in the roomful of uni students. The only one he actually had any interest in meeting - and whom he'd been pleasantly surprised to find wasn't quite as shy as he'd initially pegged her to be.

She'll be angry at the confession, but it'll blow over and eventually, many years in the future, the story of how they met will become a favourite in their family.

Especially with their four children.

* * *

_End Note: Many thanks to katemiller for reading this over for me and declaring it Good. :)_


	5. How Did It Come to Dueling Autopsies?

_Day 5: Friends-to-Lovers/Rivals-to-Lovers. Rated T for Autopsy Talk. Semi-swaplock as both Sherlock and Molly are medical professionals in this one. Enjoy!_

* * *

It starts when Molly casually mentions the number of autopsies she's performed for NSY since starting at St. Barts two years ago. The online platform is an informal gathering place for fellow pathologists, specialty registrars, and other medical professionals. Usually they spend a few minutes moaning about sports, talking about their lives and teasing one another before settling into shop talk. Usually she loves it.

Not today, though. And it's all _his _fault. Holmes, that arse of a virologist from The Royal London. (Well, he's not always an arse, she has to admit, but when he is - oh, when he _is_, he IS.)

She's defended him in the past but not this time. No, this time that posh, overbred git with the voice like velvet and the wit like a razor (_not to mention those cheekbones! Those eyes! Those dark, luscious curls!_) has gone too far. How dare he question her professionalism in front of their peers!

"I can assure you, Holmes, I don't exaggerate when it comes to my work for NSY," she grits out between her teeth, glaring at his stupid, smug image on the computer screen. "You can check my records if you like, ask Mike Stamford or talk to DI Lestrade, he can tell you - "

"Boring," he interrupts. "Not interested. I'm sure you're perfectly adequate at your job, Ms. Hooper, there's no need to pad your resume to make yourself look better - "

This time she's the one doing the interrupting, as she's absolutely seeing red at this point. "Dr. Holmes," she snarls, "NO ONE questions my competence. You want to know if I'm any good at my job? Then come to St. Barts on Friday, 4:00 pm. You take Fridays off, you said, yes? So come watch me perform an autopsy and you'll see I'm just as quick - and accurate! - as I say I am. Even better - why don't you gown up and join me? Put those rusty skills of yours to the test, hm? Unless you're afraid you can't cut it in the operating theater?"

(_Even furious she can't resist a good pun._)

There is dead silence from the other members of the forum as she and Holmes trade glares. Then the man's face transforms, his thunderous expression slowly morphing into a smile she swears is as predatory as it is challenging. "Very well, Ms. Hooper," he says softly. "Friday next at 4:00. Scalpels at 40 paces. The game," he adds, rather melodramatically, " is ON."

Then he signs out and Molly wonders just what she's gotten herself into.

Three days later, Friday at 4:00, she finds out.

And it's nothing like she expects it to be.

For one thing, Mike Stamford, her supervisor and head of the Teaching Program at St. Barts, is in attendance with several of his students. For another, DI Lestrade is there - chatting with Holmes as if they're old friends! She quells a feeling of betrayal and readies herself. Mike has rounded up two corpses that have been donated for medical studies, both very similar: Male, mid 50s, Caucasian, smokers, mildly overweight. "To make it more fair," he gleefully tells her when she asks. Then he grins, pats her on the shoulder, tells her he has a tenner on her to out-perform Holmes, and rejoins his students in the observation chamber.

Lestrade ambles over, tells her basically the same thing, doesn't give her time to ask how he knows Holmes, and makes his own way to the observation chamber. Leaving her alone with the two bodies - and Dr. Holmes.

Who performs quite an adequate autopsy, from what she can see while concentrating on her own work. His scalpel work is a little on the dramatic side, but she's not really surprised considering how dramatic the man can be. But she does her best to focus, to ignore him, and soon finds herself immersed in the work that brings her so much satisfaction: delving into the mysteries of the human body, discovering what makes this particular body unique, learning what she can about how he lived and how he died (Myocardial ischemia although he was well on his way to kidney failure) - and finishing up her last, triumphant stitch of the now closed Y incision a good half hour ahead of Holmes.

Who, it would appear, has stopped his own autopsy in order to watch her do hers. She's a bit flustered at the intensity of his attention, but tries not to let it show.

When he asks her out for coffee not two minutes after he's completed his autopsy ("Aneurism, boring") and stripped off his protective gear, she's even more flustered. "Why?" she demands in a whisper as Lestrade, Mike and the students come pouring into the room to congratulate them on their work.

"Because, Molly Hooper, you are by far the most interesting person I've met recently," he says with a shrug. "And," he adds, leaning down to whisper in her ear, "the way you wield a scalpel is sheer poetry. I think I could benefit from studying your...techniques."

Molly blushes to the roots of her hair at that obvious innuendo.

(_Later, when they're both breathless and sweaty and tangled up in each other and his soft-as-butter 600 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, he'll agree that yes, he did indeed benefit from a thorough study of her techniques. And could he possibly benefit a bit more once she's recovered?_)

* * *

_End note: Kudos to everyone who caught my Cabin Pressure reference in the first paragraph!_


	6. Of Blackguards and Greatcoats

_Day 6: Huddling for Warmth_

_WritingWife83 came to my rescue when I found myself at a creative loss for this particular prompt. All I knew was that I wanted it to be historicalock. She responded with :Snuggly Sentence Starter (hehe)- All I have is my coat, so in an attempt to prove myself the gentleman many think I am not...I am willing to share."_

_This chapter is dedicated to her with gratitude. Rated K+._

* * *

"The least those, those blackguards could have done was left a blanket!" Molly fumed as she shivered in the chill, dank air of the basement room in which she and her companion had been locked _(temporarily, one hoped, although she had the uneasy thought that perhaps she should wish to be left here rather than face whatever unhappy fate their captors had in mind for them_).

"Alas, very few _blackguards _are known for their consideration for the wellbeing of others," Holmes drawled from somewhere in the near-complete darkness of their cell. "I am confident Lady Hawkins will deliver the message I secreted in her bosom before we were so rudely snatched away. Watson and Lestrade will soon find us, I gave them far more than a mere trail of breadcrumbs to follow."

Molly glared at him; his recent ill-treatment of the lady to whom he had (falsely) been engaged had done much to damage her hard-won good opinion of him. An opinion that had only lately risen after he'd proved himself more than once to be as sincere in his pursuit of justice as he was inept in social skills of the nicer sort.

The memory of his sneering comments and humiliating deductions upon their first meeting - at her very first ball, no less! - still rankled even after more than two years had passed. That, and their current state of captivity, combined to add a waspish note to her voice as she bit out, "You have far more faith in a woman scorned than I do, Mr. Holmes."

His response was a disdainful snort. "Believe me, Miss Hooper, Lady Hawkins is far too practical a woman to allow anything as trivial as a broken engagement to overcome her desire to avoid the even larger scandal of explaining to the police how two people were abducted from her parlour from under her very nose! No, she will give my note to Watson - and doubtless she will cut me dead should we have the misfortune to meet again in future." He chuckled as if he found such a possibility humorous.

Molly's temper rose at this callous dismissal of the other woman's possibly broken heart. "With such a cold attitude, Mr. Holmes, it's just as well you ended things before she could see what kind of a man you truly are!"

He snorted again. "Lady Hawkins knew exactly what kind of man I was when she agreed to the engagement, Miss Hooper. I may have misled her as to my intentions, but bringing her despicable, blackmailing uncle to justice is surely worth the temporary injury to her pride."

Although Molly could not see his face, she could hear the passion and sincerity in his voice. She could not condone his behaviour, but she could certainly understand it. "The end is not always worth the means, Mr. Holmes," she chided him. "Perhaps you might keep that in mind in future. At least for the sake of propriety-"

"Bah, propriety!" He spat the word out as if it left a bad taste in his mouth - and indeed, Molly thought, it very well might! Sherlock Holmes had certainly never been one to follow the bounds of polite society, no matter his own exalted station in life as the second son of an Earl.

"Charles Augustus Magnesson has destroyed far too many lives, both guilty and innocent, for me to worry about whether or not the ends justify the means in this particular case, Miss Hooper. Any ethical man would be duty bound to bring to justice," he added in the manner of a vow, to Molly's rather grudging admiration. And still will," he muttered, sounding greatly aggrieved, "as soon as Watson and Lestrade stop dragging their heels and find us!"

He raised his voice with those last words, and there was a loud sound, as of a fist pounding on a hard wooden surface in frustration. Molly jumped a bit, but recognized it for exactly what it was. If it wasn't so unladylike, she might have given the door a few frustrated smacks of her own.

"You sound as if you do not believe Lady Hawkins to be in love with you," she ventured after a few minutes' silence. _Oh Molly, hush! You are too bold, too inquisitive for your own good,_ she could hear her dear Mama's voice chiding her. But it was cold, and dark; they were trapped together and Molly very much feared that it would be their captors who would return for them and not Dr. Watson or Inspector Lestrade. If this was the last semi-civilized conversation she was to have with anyone, let alone Holmes, then why not broach such a tender topic?

"Lady Hawkins wishes to be wed solely to improve her status; the choice of husband is entirely secondary to that desire," Holmes said. "Believe me, had my elder brother, as my father's heir, approached her even after she'd accepted me, I would be the one being advised to find another to whom I could give my heart."

Molly's own heart was pounding in her chest; strange, why should she find this conversation so fraught, when it had nothing to do with her? "And is there such a woman, Mr. Holmes?" she whispered.

His voice lowered as well, and Molly had to strain to hear his next words. "Please, call me Sherlock, Molly. In answer to your question...there is only one woman I have ever considered giving my heart to, and trust me, Janine Hawkins is not that woman."

"Who-who is she? Lady Irene?" There had been vague rumors a few years ago of a scandal involving Holmes and the wealthy widow of Lord Godfried Norton, but she had tried her best to avoid the gossip.

He chuckled; she felt the warmth of his breath against her ear - when had they moved so close to one another? "No, not Lady Irene," he replied in that same, low voice that had the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. "Can you not guess, Molly? Did you not wonder why I approached you this evening, why I asked you to dance?"

"I had hopes that it was an attempt on your part to make up for your appalling behavior at our first ball," she admitted. Oh, how humiliated she had been by his cruelty, when he had disparaged both her appearance and her dancing skills before realizing she was close enough to hear him. Yes, he had immediately apologized - an act which his good friend Dr. Watson assured her was virtually unheard of! - but it had not eased the sting of that first encounter. "However," she continued, "it became immediately apparent that you merely needed a partner to help provide a distraction while Dr. Watson slipped out of the ballroom to fetch Inspector Lestrade."

He let out a soft huff of laughter; before she could do more than bristle in indignation, he spoke. "And that display of intelligence, Molly, is exactly why you captured my attention. Not to mention your quick wit, your scientific studies - yes, I deduced your interest in the sciences despite your efforts to masquerade as just another simpering miss bent on acquiring a husband - and, of course, your very fine eyes."

Molly was stunned into silence by this ardent confession; could he possibly be saying what she thought - hoped? - he was saying?

"Mr. Holmes - Sherlock - are you...declaring yourself to me?"

She waited, breathless with anticipation, for his response, her face tilted blindly upward, but as she heard him draw breath to speak a violent shudder wracked her frame, and her teeth chattered together before she could clench her jaw and stop them.

"Sorry!" she squeaked, mortified that her body had chosen so inopportune a moment to remind her of the cold and damp that currently surrounded them. If only she'd been wearing her shawl when she'd been taken by the rogues working for Lady Hawkins' reprehensible uncle! But no, all she was wearing was her fashionable short-sleeved ball gown, lightweight unmentionables beneath that, and her thin-soled dancing slippers, through which the damp chill of the well-packed dirt floor was rapidly seeping. If only it was an earlier era; she thought longingly of the layers of petticoats and elbow-length sleeves her mother had worn to balls during her London Season.

"Unfortunately I have neither blanket nor shawl to share with you," Sherlock said, as if in response to her thoughts. "All I have is my coat, so in an attempt to prove myself the gentleman many think I am not...I am willing to share."

With that, she found herself swept into his embrace, the heavy greatcoat pulled round to cover them both as he gently urged her to press her body against his lean form.

"And yes, Molly, I am declaring myself," he added. He felt the soft brush of something - his fingertips - against her jaw, tilting her head up, and then an even softer pressure against her lips.

Her first kiss, and it was as magical, as sweet and passionate as she'd ever dared hope it would be.

Their second kiss would not occur until several weeks after their rescue by Inspector Lestrade and Dr. Watson - but as it was on the day of her wedding to Sherlock, Molly found she had no complaints with that particular delay.


End file.
